The Unbeloved

Not a woman, child, or man in
All this isle, that loves thee, C[anni]ng.
Fools, whom gentle manners sway,
May incline to C[astlerea]gh,
Princes, who old ladies love,
Of the Doctor may approve,
Chancery lads do not abhor
Their chatty, childish Chancellor.
In Liverpool some virtues strike,
And little Van's beneath dislike.
Tho, if I were to be dead for't,
I could never love thee, H[eadfor]t:
(Every man must have his way)
Other grey adulterers may.
But thou unamiable object,--
Dear to neither prince, nor subject;--
Veriest, meanest scab, for pelf
Fastning on the skin of Guelph,
Thou, thou must, surely, loathe thyself.